


Don't leave my hyper heart alone

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Trigun
Genre: Angst, M/M, Manga Verse, fic for Celesma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches Wolfwood watch him, sometimes. Catalogues the ebb and flow of distance between them, can't find a pattern. Finds that the gulf between them hurts him sometimes, for there are other things, much more difficult things, that are more freely given, more constant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't leave my hyper heart alone

****  
  


A/N: Beta'ed by the wonderful **Celesma**. None of this would be possible without her. All remaining mistakes are my own.

The companion piece to this one is  **Alone on the Water** .

Disclaimer at the end of the fic **  
**

 

 

**1\. I had a hole in the middle where the lightning went through it**  
  
“You should flirt with someone, y'know?”  
  


Vash sets the bottle down on the lopsided table with a thud, the rest of the soon-to-be-imbibed liquid in it sloshing around angrily, a personal vendetta against gravity.  
  


His guide gives him a flat look, unimpressed. Sighs the sigh of the damned and exasperated, lights a cigarette.  
  


“Seeeeeeriously,” Vash drawls, stretching across the table like a giant red-coated cat in an effort to reach Wolfwood's bottle – containing considerably more liquid – but his guide bats Vash's hands away easily, with an annoyed snort.  
  


Vash pouts. For a minute, that is. Then:  
  


“Seriously though – why don't you?”  
  


He stares at his guide with a frown and a look of utmost concentration that clashes hideously with his drunken state.  
  


Wolfwood lights another cigarette, slow and unhurried. Vash stares.  
  


“Why don't I what?” his guide finally asks, unnerved.  
  


Vash takes a deep breath, releases it in an impatient hiss.  
  


“ _Flirt_. With people.”  
  


Another snort. “With _whom_?”  
  


An eyeroll.  
  


“With _people_. Like, _women_. For example. Whatever floats your, uh. Moves your sand-steamer. Gets your Punisher off. Whatever.”  
  


Wolfwood stares at him, expressionless, then crushes his cigarette out on the poor, violated tabletop, lights another. Through the smoke: “You're drunk, Tongari.”  
  


Vash croons happily, “Like _yeah_ , I'm drunk,” playing up the nonsense, and then pointing at his guide in victory, “but _you're_ deflecting. That's, like, _worse_. At least I'm saying exactly what I mean! All truths, no sugar-whatever,” he concludes, satisfied with himself, smiling brightly. Then takes another huge swallow from his bottle, sets it down with an even more violent thud, deliberately ignoring that glass is breakable, that it breaks easy.  
  


He watches his guide's eyes follow the movement, how his hands momentarily turn into fists, then relax and lie still again.

  
“Whatever you say, Tongari.”  
  


Now it's Vash's turn to narrow his eyes. “You're still evading.”  
  


A groan. “Vash, what the fuck, man. Why does that interest you all of a sudden, anyway?”  
  


Vash stares sheepishly in the table's general direction.  
  


“I kinda... didn't really notice, until now. There's a lot, like, _going on_ , you know – ”  
  


“Oh, _really_?”  
  


“Let me finish! It's a lot going on and I know we have to be on the run most of the time because – ”  
  


“You get us into trouble!”  
  


“Because _trouble_ gets into _trouble_ with me! But, whatever.” Another deep swallow. “The point is – you're my friend and friends look out for each other, because – because. Also, love and peace. We get to save the world, we might as well enjoy it while we save its ass, right? Right. So yeah. Get some ass. I mean flirt. Love. Whichever.”  
  


With that, he promptly lays his head down on the table and closes his eyes, sighing contentedly.

Nothing for a few beats, then Wolfwood mutters, offhandedly, “You are seriously weird today, Vash.”  
  


Vash mumbles, indignantly, “ 'm not.”  
  


“Also, even if I _had_ the time in between saving your ass or dragging your ass through the sand or listening to your drunk rambling to do – _whatever_ – you should be well aware that we are far too broke. No woman is interested in a guy who can't even buy them a drink first.”  
  


“We _have_ drinks,” Vash tells the tabletop.  
  


“Yeah, and they're probably nine hundred percent engine cleaner,” Wolfwood shoots back, throwing some of it down his throat. It probably burns like fire, but that's still better than drinking sand. He grimaces, takes another shot.  
  


Vash grumbles, “Use your looks, then.”  
  


Wolfwood stares at him with an unreadable expression, then drags a hand down his face in silent suffering.  
  


“Vash, _seriously_ – ”  
  


“Seriously!” Vash exclaims, dragging his head around to look up at his guide, arms flailing out uncoordinated. “Women like the rough edges, the gravel voice thing, the rumpled open shirt stuff, the – ”  
  


“Vash, I swear if you don't shut up now – ” His hands inch towards the Punisher, expression positively thunderous.  
  


Wasn't there someone somewhere who called Vash 'Lightning'? Well, he is, he is lighting, but not now, for he cowers on the table in overplayed dread.

 

“Whoa, whoa, calm down, can't you take a compliment gracefully?!”  
  


His guide only narrows his eyes further.  
  


“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up, okay? Okay. See? I'm shutting up.”  
  


Wolfwood eyes him suspiciously for another few moments, then leans back again and smokes, ignoring Vash.

 

His guide leaves the rest of his booze alone (though he keeps on fending off Vash's ridiculous attempts at stealing it), while Vash keeps on smiling, keeps on sloshing down the liquid fire like it's water – which to him, it is. Salt water in the desert. Drying you out even as you drink it, leaving you thirsty, so thirsty.

 

**2\. That's one step, one step, two step**

 

They walk another three hundred iles. When there are finally people again, they first get scowled at, then ignored, and finally – and inevitably – shot at.

 

Too exhausted to get pissed off (Wolfwood) or sad (Vash), they simply walk.  
  


Vash's coat, his elbow, brushes against his guide's on every odd step.  
  


“You know, you don't deserve this,” he says, softly. Watches the frown on Wolfwood's face deepen, getting mixed with confusion.  
  


“Whaddaya mean?”  
  


Vash makes a vague gesture, at the desert, the cruel sky. Gravel and dust crunch under his boots. His elbow brushes Wolfwood's again, soft sigh and swish of fabric.  
  


“This – this hostility everywhere we go. You'd have – you'd have it easier. Without me.”  
  


Silence. One step, two steps –  
  


“Don't waste your breath on stupid shit, Tongari.”  
  


Vash smiles. “ Seriously though – ”  
  
“Vash, come on, the heat is annoying enough already – ”  
  
“I've been wanting to thank you. For sticking with me. For defending me. You are – a very good friend.”   
  
He raises his arm, to lay a hand on the other man's shoulder – but his guide has already shouldered ahead.

  
“Whatever, Tongari. I'm doing what I have to do. You know that. And it's not like _you_ deserve – ”

But he doesn't continue. Not slowing down, he fumbles in his pocket for his sunglasses, puts them on, hoists the Punisher higher.  
  


It throws a shadow behind him, huge – the suns are beginning to set.  
  


Despite feeling inexplicably cold, Vash doesn't breach the distance between them again.

 

They walk in silence until the light goes out.

 

**3\. We're not safe of dying kings with plastic knives  
  
** It's always either two beds or none at all, or one of them sleeps on the floor.  
  


They haven't once shared a bed. They never ask how the other slept in the morning.  
  


Wolfwood seems to be aware of Vash brooding and thinking and mourning for hours, but he never asks, never says anything, though there is a quiet sympathy in his gaze in the mornings.  
  


His guide always looks tired these days, weary, worn thin.  
  


Whenever Vash wakes during the night – _noises_ , _nightmares_ , _guilt_ – Wolfwood seems to be awake, sitting in bed and smoking, or lying on his bed and staring directly upwards into the dark.

 

One night, Vash gasps awake from the memory, the _agony_ of – nothing. It's gone before he can grasp it. Panting and shuddering, he turns around on auto-pilot, to make sure that – but what he's seeing makes him stop.  
  


Wolfwood is sitting upright on the bed – clothed, on the covers instead of under them, always – clutching at his head, almost clawing at his face. He doesn't move, doesn't even make a sound, but he's shaking, shaking all over.

 

“Wolf-... _Nick_?” Vash whispers, shocked, chilled to the bone. He gets no response. Fighting his way out of his covers, he stumbles over to the other bed, comes to a halt before it, freezes in panicked uncertainty.  
  


He raises his arms, hesitates, lets them fall to his sides again. His guide doesn't react to his presence but makes a choked kind of sound in the back of his throat, clutches at his head even tighter.  
  


“Nick!”  
  


Vash sits down on the edge of the bed, takes a hold of Wolfwood's arms, tries to get them – gently – away from his head.  
  


The minute he touches the other man's skin, his guide jerks up and away from him, panting heavily, eyes wild, desperate and eerily bright in the dim room.  
  


In less than two seconds, he has brought his hand gun to bear on Vash, aim perfect though his arms still shake.  
  


They stare at each other, Wolfwood's erratic breaths the only sound in the room.  
  


Then Vash shifts, and: “Nick, you – I want to help you, Nick – ”  
  


“Shut up!”   
  
He doesn't lower the weapon. Vash falls back in shocked, confused silence. With a sudden, jerky movement, Wolfwood gets off the bed, gun in hand, and hisses, “Don't call me that! That is not who I am!” He doesn't stop, just grabs the Punisher and slams the door.

 

He leaves, vanishes into the dark and doesn't return for three days.

 

**4\. And you and you and you  
  
** He watches him play with children. Giving them the last of what he has to eat, even though he often seems more starved then they are. He watches him kill criminals with intense calculated precision, with detached ease. He watches the way he looks lonely even in a crowd of people.   
  


He watches Wolfwood watch him, sometimes. Catalogues the ebb and flow of distance between them, can't find a pattern. Finds that the gulf between them hurts him sometimes, for there are other things, much more difficult things, that are more freely given, more constant – a broad, strong back against his in battle, a hand to help him up, to defend him. The companionable silence in the rare moments of peace, the eery way his facade is seen through by Wolfwood as easily as if it was made of glass.  
  


In spite of everything, they fall in step beside each other easily, every time, always. The connection is so deep it's overwhelming, confusing.

 

One evening has him lying on a motel bed, the sheets for once cool under his back, for there is a soft, refreshing breeze blowing through the curtains. Wolfwood is there, sitting at the table, in his shirtsleeves. He isn't even smoking, just sits leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed, letting the wind ruffle his hair. He looks softer around the edges in the fading light, almost fragile.

 

Vash's hands hurt. His throat feels constricted, his chest heavy. He can't look away.

 

He stands up, silently. Goes over to Wolfwood and stands there, looking down at him, not making a sound.  
  


Wolfwood cracks open his eyes, slowly, relaxed. His gaze is dark but warm, gentle.

 

“What is it, Tongari?” he whispers, sleepily.

 

Vash hesitates – then, slowly lays a hand on Wolfwood's own, resting on his left knee. Curls his fingers around it, sand-roughened skin, _warm_.  
  


“Nick, I – I – ”  
  


His guide goes utterly rigid under him, tense. His eyes flash upwards to Vash quickly, and he snatches his hand away as if burned.  
  


Then he gets up, turns away.

 

“You should sleep, Vash. It's late.”

 

Without a backwards glance, Wolfwood goes over to his bed and lies down stiffly, his back to Vash.

 

“It's late, believe me,” he says, again, and then, nothing. Nothing.

 

**5\. We walked the earth in solitude  
  
** Then Wolfwood leaves again, and Vash is –  
  


He is angry, so angry. He's being pulled in two completely opposing directions, north and south, up and down, and it creates a physical ache inside him. He's being split apart.

  
The road ahead is a grinding on his bones. His ears are his brother's cruel laughter. His head is guilt, fear, doubt and hope.  
  
Closing his eyes, he sees Wolfwood's lopsided grin, the way his shoulders cave in under the weight of his weapon, his soft dark gaze.

 

He breathes in deeply, breathes out slowly. Concentrates on the rumble of the airship's engine, the _thud thud thud,_ an echo in the caves of his hollow heart.  
  
  


 

 

 

 

**Disclaimer** **:** I don't own Trigun. Titles inspired by the following music:  
  
Don't leave my hyper heart alone – “Sorrow,” The National  
  
I had a hole in the middle where the lightning went through it – “Anyone's Ghost,” The National  
  
That's one step, one step, two step – “Two Steps, Twice,” Foals  
  
We're not save of dying kings with plastic knives – “Electric Bloom,” Foals  
  
And you and you and you – “Olympic Airways,” Foals  
  
We walked the earth in solitude – “Strangers,” Yoko Kanno


End file.
